


Five times Luke and Lorelai spoke without talking (and one time they did)

by Valhalla



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M, spoilers for AYITL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valhalla/pseuds/Valhalla
Summary: Pre-series to post-AYITL. Luke and Lorelai were never very good with the words.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this was just a random idea that sprung up from discussions about Luke and Lorelai's continued communication problems in AYITL (which, I am totally in agreement with, though I do think it's fairly realistic that a couple that struggles with addressing the Big Stuff would still have unresolved issues nine years later), and imagining the moments where they do manage to connect in a different, but important, way. Written quickly, barely edited -- apologies in advance!

i.

She drives him nuts, she knows that. 

Lorelai chatters through one-sided conversations, punctuated only by Luke's occasional side-eyed glares, does running commentary on the weather and Stars Hollow gossip, and calls him  _Duke_  with ferocious dedication. In return, she barely gets two words, both of them usually grunts or complaints about her diet, or maybe an exasperated eye roll if she's lucky. 

She's not even sure why she does it, really, other than the fact that he's still a mystery to her in a town where she could list everyone else's quirks and histories by heart. He's just Grumpy Diner Man most of the time, but there are these rare moments, the ones where a grin slips out or he mentions something about his dad, and she sees a glimpse of a whole different person behind the carefully constructed layers of grouch that seem too well-worn for a guy who probably isn't much past 30. So Luke serves her coffee and she talks his ear off, and hopes that one day she'll poke enough that something will crack, and she'll know once and for all the real guy under the plaid and sour expression. 

Today, though, she's barely got enough energy to lift her cup to her lips, let alone bug Luke. The week is kicking her butt: the inn is fully booked with three different conferences and a tour group that has to top her all-time list of weird-and-inane requests, and Rory's just getting over a nasty bout of stomach flu that's kept her up retching, and there's some kind of roof issue at the Crapshack that needs fixing but the quote for it almost turned her hair grey, and she's slept maybe a total of eight fitful hours over the last couple nights. So she's slouched over the corner at Luke's, not even trying to look pathetic but fighting to keep herself upright, and when he walks by with the coffeepot she forgoes her usual performance in favour of just nudging her cup towards him. 

He stops, filling it to the brim. Lorelai's tired enough that she almost misses the fact he's skipped his usual this-stuff'll-rot-your-insides lecture, but realizes and shoots him a weak smile in thanks before downing it all and going for her wallet. Her hand-eye coordination's so shot it takes her three tries to get a $5 bill out, and by the time she places it on the counter Luke's gone into the kitchen and come back. 

He plunks two to-go cups in front of her, and a bag that smells heavenly. She peeks and discovers more coffee for her, some kind of tea for Rory, fresh danishes with the cherry filling they both love, and what looks like containers of chicken noodle soup and mashed potatoes. Luke doesn't even say anything, just raises an eyebrow and ducks his chin at the spread before turning back to the kitchen. Lorelai's flabbergasted -- speechless, for once -- and so sleep-deprived that his gesture is going to turn her into a weepy mess if she doesn't cut and run as quickly as possible. She settles for giving him another wavering smile as she grabs up the tray and bag, balancing her jacket and purse on the other arm. 

The Monosyllabic Man mystery is still far from solved but there's one new item, she thinks as she hustles out the door, that she can add to her running tally of Things I Know About Luke Danes.

He is a  _great_  listener, even when she's not talking. 

ii.

There's something changing between them. 

She doesn't say anything and neither does he, and for her part it's mostly because she can't quite put her finger on the  _what_. They still banter, and they're still good friends, and they still have those tension-fraught moments where she almost thinks one of them is going to be brave and finally name the whatever-it-is that sometimes erupts between them, usually when a Christoper or a Max or a Rachel are involved. 

But they never do, and instead they cycle back again through friendly camaraderie to a kind of surrogate partnership to a roadblock of hurt feelings or defensive anger, until one of them gets a boyfriend or separates from their wife;  _wash rinse repeat_. 

For the millionth time, Lorelai runs through the litany of reasons why Luke is a non-starter -- they've know each other for years, and he would have said or tried something earlier if he actually had feelings for her; it's just a dumb crush that everybody in town's practically mythologized; he's too big a part of her life to chance ruining it with dating; she's too scared to even consider what being with Luke could mean. 

Because it could be ... amazing.

Like life-altering, maybe-this-is-it amazing, and that's the most terrifying part.

She can't --  _won't_  -- name the thing that's existed so tenuously between them for so many years, but she knows the exact second when things start to shift in a way that throws off their equilibrium, that tips their balancing act on the thinnest edge between friendship and love. They're dancing together at Liz and TJ's wedding (because  _Luke can waltz?_ ), and it starts off silly. She's a little rusty and Luke's eternally patient, guiding her though the steps around the dance floor. And they're laughing; it feels so formal and foreign, and so much like one of those ridiculous cotillion things, and it's easier to act like this is a goof, two buddies playing make-believe grown-ups at a fancy party. But then she looks at Luke, and a little bit of that carefully guarded emotion -- the stuff he usually tucks away or dresses up in irritation -- spills out into his eyes, a quiet intensity that makes her insides go warm and her breath catch in her throat. And it feels not very wrong at all to move closer into his space, to duck her cheek against the shoulder of his suit jacket, to smell his Luke smell and wonder if this is the way he looks at her all the time and she never really let herself pay attention.  

Maybe she can't say it yet, but she thinks she wants to, and that's something she can't wait to tell him. 

iii.

Lorelai knows she's a handful.

Truly. She knows she can be silly, and irreverent, and prone to a rambling kind of goofiness that she wraps around herself like a shield, talking a mile a minute so there's no space left for weakness or words that can hurt. 

But Luke? He quiets her in a way no one else can. (Well, in a dirty way too, but besides that.)

Sometimes it's just a look, or his hands on her shoulders, or his fingertips moving through her hair, or a million other little ways that ground her, make her brain and mouth stop whirring. And then all that's left is  _her_ , no defences drawn, and it's so scary but so amazing to be stripped down to the bones of who she is -- stubborn and self-involved and eternally a mess -- and have someone still say  _yes, that's what I want._  

Luke stirs and rolls over in bed, his arm slung across the duvet. She turns her head so she can watch him, track the sleepy movements as he scrubs his face, taking in the mussed hair and three day's worth of scruff and heavy-lidded eyes as he slowly rouses and realizes that she's awake. 

He blinks at her, still groggy.

"Okay?"

It's simple, but searching; he wants to make sure she's alright. He is _always_ making sure that she's alright, in the smallest and biggest ways, and her heart swells in a way that's getting familiar. 

She leans over and kisses him as an answer, because that's really what she means to say anyway, the  _t_ _hank you_  and  _I love you_  and  _I'm so glad you're here._ Because the words? Luke kisses her back, and they're not really something she needs anymore. 

iv.

Luke's disappeared.

It's not like she's called a manhunt or anything, and it's not a surprise. It's November 30, after all, as the alarm clock and waking to an empty bed that morning had blearily reminded her. But she's still ... disappointed, a little. There'd been a careful rebuilding in the wake of Rory's graduation party, a piece-by-piece repair that had stripped their relationship down the studs and then started fresh with a studier foundation. Like new-and-improved relationship concrete, or something. They talk more than they ever have, even when it's an awkward negotiation of Christopher phone calls or April's visitation schedule, or a stupid argument about how long the brakes in her Jeep can go without being replaced. 

But they  _talk_ these days, they've learned, and to have a piece of their life -- even if it predates her -- throw Luke back into monosyllabic loner mode is a little frustrating. She can't fault him, though; Luke's grief is his grief, and she knows his father's death had throw him into the same kind of tailspin that Rory's birth had done to her, having to grow up way too fast while also flash-freezing their emotional maturity.

Lorelai sighs, feeling like her brain's crammed full with too many thoughts, and opens the door to the diner. 

"Hey Caesar," she says in greeting, walking up to the counter and dropping onto one of the stools. "I don't suppose you could hook a lady up with some caffeine?"

Caesar looks nervous, eyes darting between her and the stairs to Luke's old apartment.

"Uh, hi Lorelai," he says slowly, still doing the weird shifty-eye thing. "What, uh, are you doing here?"

_Ahhh._

"Caesar, is Luke upstairs?" Guilt floods his face. "And you feel like you can't tell me because it's his dark day? I'm not looking for him, I swear. I just want some coffee."

"Look Lorelai -- I'm sorry, you know how he gets," Caesar rambles. "I just didn't know if it was like, a secret thing? I mean, it probably wouldn't be from you if he was gonna tell anyone, but you never know. And I wasn't even supposed to know, I don't think, but I saw him coming in through the back, and please don't let him kill me."

"It's fine, Caesar, really," she reassures. "Just here for the coffee. To go. And no poking the bear, I promise." 

He brightens and nods at her, and a few moments later Lorelai has a warm cup in her hands. God's honest truth, she only means to drop her change on the counter and pick up her purse and leave, but then she  _swears_  she hears noise filtering down the stairs from the apartment. And it could be -- vandals, or Luke having a stroke, or something equally terrible, so it's only right to sneak past the curtain when Caesar's back is turned to double-check.

About six stairs up she can make out the sounds of Luke's frustrated cursing, and a clanking that sounds like metal on metal.  _Makes sense_. Jess has said something about the kitchen sink dripping when he'd crashed there a few weeks before. That's mostly what the apartment's used for now -- storage, excellent present-hiding, and a place for Jess or Rory to hole up when they don't feel like infringing on the "lovey-dovey couple thing" (tm Jess Mariano, with only a smidge of sarcasm).

Placing her coffee on the floor, Lorelai knocks softly and eases the door open.  

He's standing at the sink, tools spread out across the countertop and kitchen table. His back's to her, but she can see the hard set of his shoulders, the way his whole body's strung tight.  

"Luke?" He doesn't turn around as she approaches, but she knows he's listening. "I don't want to bother you and I promise I'll be quick. I just -- I just wanted to say that I know it's your day, and you usually like to be alone, but if you need company you know where to find me. And you know how good I am with those wrench screw thingies, as an added bonus."

Silence. She watches his arms flex as he grips the sink even tighter. 

_So that's that, then_.

Lorelai starts to leave, because she's said what she wanted to say, and there's no underlying current of manipulation or hopeful prodding to her words. The offer's there, and she'll respect whatever he chooses to do, which seems to be the loner thing. And that's okay because this is Luke, and on a day that's not so dark she'll tell him why it hurts a little, and they'll talk about it and everything will be fine. 

She's turning back to the door when the feel of his hand surrounds hers. He's still at the sink, head bowed, but reaching back for her. His grip's all calluses and dry, rough skin from the heat of the stove and the grit of repairs. And strong -- always strong -- but now he's shaking. Just a little, only enough that she notices because he's usually so steady. He pulls her closer, against his back, their hands tucked in between them. She presses her cheek between his shoulder blades and breathes in his smell, and waits. 

He doesn't have any words for his pain, and she doesn't either, but what is she hears is --  _stay_. 

v.

She drives home from the hospital on autopilot. She might have turned on the radio? The steering wheel was freezing, she remembers that, especially for September, and she'd had to scrub the fog from her windows before she pulled out of the parking lot. Really cold for September.

Luke had left earlier that night to help Caesar at the diner, because her dad was fine (well, as fine as you can be in the ICU, but stable at least) and why not take a few hours to check in? She'd man the hospital room, with her mom and Rory, supply the coffee and the entertainment. No problem. 

But then something had gone wrong, and his heart had given up, and just like that her father was gone. 

Even considering a phone call after the paperwork and solemn doctors and her mother's hysterical crying had been too much. So she'd fed her credit card to the pay machine and sucked back the last of her cold coffee and driven to Stars Hollow, Rory promising to stay with her grandmother for the night. Luke -- she had to tell Luke, and take Paul Anka out, and call Michel to make sure he covered for her the next day, and it had all felt like she was moving through Jello, everything so muddled and hazy and  _hard_ , so Rory going to Hartford instead of her was a small mercy. She'd deal with the rest of it in the morning. But first, she needed her bed and Pop-Tarts and enough NyQuil PM to knock out a horse.

It doesn't really hit her until she makes it home, curling up in her duvet, that her father has blinked out of existence. He's not in his study, or at the club, or in any of the million other spaces he used to inhabit; he's no longer a steady constant, quietly living his parallel life that intersects with hers at least once a week. He is  _gone_ , and the sound that howls out of her is pure anguish. She cries, and squeezes her body tighter and tighter around the duvet, feeling like she wants to escape inside herself, like she can will herself out of existence too, just until the terrible pain ebbs away and she doesn't feel like every inch of her is raw with grief. 

She's still crying when she hears the bedroom door softy swing open and thinks, _Rory must have called him_.

Luke hovers next to her side of the bed, a blue-on-blue blur of denim and plaid through her tears. Lorelai can feel him watching her, all hesitation and uncertainty and concern. He knows this; he knows this feeling, holds his grief for his own father so close to the surface that he's marked almost 30 years of dark days. Part of her wants him to leave, so she doesn't even have to worry about him or sniffle out a placating  _I'm fine_  that he won't believe, but another, bigger part of her feels like she'll shatter into even tinier pieces if she's alone. 

The mattress creaks under his weight, and all of a sudden she feels careful hands come up to frame her shoulders, his face pressed against her hair. One arm slips down to cross her stomach, at first gently and then tighter, like he can keep her together by sheer force of will alone. His other hand's at her back, rubbing slow circles into the fabric of her sweater.

He doesn't say anything. What's there  _to_  say? He knows, after all. 

But Luke keeps her holding on, keeps her existing, until she falls into an exhausted sleep, still in his arms. 

vi.

"I'm all in."

Lorelai blinks up at Luke in surprise. 

She'd been expecting a  _yep_  or a nod or something with a one-syllable word limit following the "do you take this woman?" part of their vows, like he'd done the night before at their secret ceremony. But he only smirks as Reverend Skinner moves on to her section, his expression settling into the same steady confidence that reverberated through his words. 

Those words. There's a weight behind them. A litany of failures when neither of them completely were -- Christopher, April, the ultimatum, the weirdness after her father's death and the separation between their families. But there's also the horoscope, and the ring in the desk drawer, and eight years of building a friendship and a life around each other, and more than a decade of  _living_ that life, of having their middle. 

Lorelai looks at his face, the history of them mapped across Luke's features, in the love and warmth and devotion she sees there. She sees a thousand mistakes, a thousand missteps, time lost being too stupid and stubborn to say what they really meant and just be together. But she also sees a thousand porch conversations and a thousand Santa burgers and a thousand moments when coming home just meant  _Luke_. There's a weight, sure, but not a burden. And so she nods at the reverend and smiles at her husband, squeezing his hands between hers, and says the words that feel like they've been there forever, just waiting for her to find them. 

"All in."


End file.
